


Never and Always

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s01e01 Reputation, M/M, Takes place after the pilot episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: A clunky piano, plastic chairs arranged in a circle and five children, Brother Michael’s disciples, picking out in crotchets and quavers the opening bars of their fate.





	1. Chapter 1

I have fallen asleep with the blinds open and wake squinting at the light flooding into the bedroom. I am fully dressed, on top of the covers and feeling bloody awful.

At least I got home. In the worst of my hard-drinking days before I left for the BVI there was no guarantee of that. But I wish I could remember how I got here. I had been for a drink with Hathaway, my new sergeant, that much I know. I remember letting him switch from orange juice on the second round. I don’t recall much after that, but there must have been spirits or I wouldn’t be feeling like this. I try to turn away from the light and reclaim sleep but daytime is insistent so I resign myself to getting up.

I gaze at my wretched self in the bathroom mirror. I shouldn’t have done it, I should have gone home after one pint. It was stupid and unprofessional and I hope I haven’t lost Hathaway before he’s even started. He doesn’t seem the type to run and tell tales to the Chief Super but he could still go and work for Grainger. Odd fish though he is, I would be sorry to lose him.

Thanks to my keen Detective Inspector instincts I realise the distant rumble I have been hearing since I regained consciousness is not the motor of some malfunctioning machine. It is someone’s breathing.

I follow the vibrations to the kitchen and find Hathaway there. He has his head down on the table and is asleep. I know that table of old and I can attest to what kind of night he has had.

The noise of me filling the kettle wakes him and when I turn around he is sitting up with two hands over his face. 

“Oh God,” he says.

“Morning, Hathaway.” 

“Sir.”

“How are we?”

“Why is it so bright?”

“A new day, sergeant. A brand-new day.”

He laughs and winces. After checking his jacket pocket for cigarettes, he goes outside to smoke. When he comes back, I hand him a mug of tea.

Hathaway never gives much away but I want to know what kind of night we had, what kind of drunk I was. Did I say anything I should not have, become unpleasant? I settle for thanking him for getting me home.

“That’s not going to be part of your regular duties, I can assure you.”

He frowns, “I’m not sure that’s how it went, to be honest.”

“No?”

“It’s possible you were the only one who could remember a home address.”

I am grateful for that kindness; that refusal to get one up on his new senior officer when he has the chance.

He keeps doing this; proving his loyalty when he has no real reason to. Our first case together was pure Oxford, to do with mathematical minutiae and academic reputation. It was difficult and strange and I could see he was enjoying the puzzle intellectually, as Morse would have. But he never forgot he was dealing with flawed humans, including a jet lagged, shell-shocked inspector.

“Look Hathaway,” I say. “You’re all right after what happened yesterday? With Ivor Denniston, I mean.”

Denniston’s ghost self-administering poison, presents itself. In our job we become accustomed to being in the presence of death, but in the normal course of events, our arrival is strictly post-mortem. 

“Of course, sir. We already talked about this.” He glances over. “Last night.”

So I was the type of drunk with staff welfare anxieties. It could have been worse.

“Remind me to take the pledge, will you, sergeant?”

“Noted, sir. It’s kind of you to be concerned. It’s more his wife I’ve been thinking about.”

“Because of your aunt?”

“Motor Neurone Disease is a hard way to go.”

“Were you close?”

He tilts his head. It is a shrug, a polite dismissal. This, I am learning, is a signal I have trespassed on to one of the many areas of his life that are strictly private property.

As he drinks his tea, his policeman’s eye wanders the flat’s bare walls and shelves.

“Did you rent this place out while you were in the BVI, sir?” 

“Aye, I did. I’ll have to get my boxes out of storage, make it feel a bit more like home.” Even as I’m saying it, I know it will never happen. “Or maybe it’s time to move.”

This is the place I bought after selling the family house when Val died and Mark pushed off. I did the worst of my grieving here and the worst of my drinking. It harbours only dark memories and I believe I would do better almost anywhere else. 

“Brand-new day, sir,” Hathaway says softly.

I drop him off at his car, which thankfully we left at the pub, and we go our separate ways. It is Saturday and I have no plans to go into work now the case is closed. But a few hours later, there is a knock at the door and I find Hathaway there. He is dressed for work though hardly more awake.

“Stabbing near George Street,” he tells me.

“Us again?”

“We’ve got an inspector shortage, sir,” he says.

“There never seems to be a murderer shortage,” I grumble before going to get a suit back on.

***

The victim is a man in his early thirties. Tall, white, well-built with brown hair shaved at the back like Hathaway’s. His sweatshirt is slashed and stained with wide brown circles of blood and there are cuts on his face and arms. He was found by a lass working in the kitchen of one of the businesses backing on to this alley. She was putting out rubbish when she spotted his body hidden among the bins and piles of boxes.

“Heavy night, inspector?” Laura asks. Then catching a glimpse of Hathaway, she grins. “And sergeant?”

“Speak slowly and quietly,” I tell her. “And no sudden movements.”

“So this happened sometime last night,” she says. “I’d estimate between eleven and two. The victim was stabbed multiple times with a small-bladed knife. He put up a fight; most of the cuts are defensive wounds but at least three of them were potentially fatal.”

“Which suggests a firm intention to kill.”

“Quite. When he was either dead or incapacitated he was dragged behind the wheelie bins from over there.” She waves in the direction of another taped off area. “And covered in refuse.”

“Any idea how many attackers?”

“He’s a big lad, but one person could have done this.”

The uniformed officer who was first on the scene is holding several evidence bags, “Anything of interest, constable?” I ask.

“We’ve got a wallet, cards and a phone, sir.” 

“Not a robbery then.”

“There’s also a bag of skunk. Personal use probably.”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s Thomas Morgan, but he goes by Dizz.”

“He looks familiar,” Hathaway says frowning down at the body.

“Not surprising, sarge, we nicked him three times last year. Mostly charges to do with smuggling cigarettes and alcohol. He does a bit of heavy lifting for the Costa brothers.”

“Is that how you know him?” I ask Hathaway as we drive across town to break the news to Morgan’s wife.

“I wasn’t involved in any of those arrests,” he says. His frustration at his inability to place a delinquent memory is evident. “I must have seen him around the station.”

Angela Morgan, despite acknowledging Dizz’s criminal connections, cannot comprehend why anyone would go to the trouble of murdering him. Her shock and devastation appear genuine.

They live in a small fifth floor flat on an estate. She has a two-year old boy and a baby girl so we believe her when she says the three of them were home alone all last night. Also, she is small and slight and if she wanted to kill her husband, she would have found another way to do it.

She tells us that Dizz’s real job was as a mechanic in a Cowley garage and he was working hard, after his last disastrous year, to stay on the right side of the law. He did still associate with the Costa crowd, mainly because he played trumpet in a jazz band with friends of theirs. He had been a fan of Dizzy Gillespie, which was how he came by his nickname.

We wait with Angela until Family Liaison arrive and then go to the office.

Hathaway gets on with organising victim profile, CCTV review and door-to-door while I go and brief Jean Innocent. Apparently, it is normal for her to be at her desk on a Saturday. Her concession to the weekend is a pair of jeans and slightly less efficient hair.

I update her on the case and our plan for it.

“Nice and simple, then,” she says. “Drug transaction goes wrong, no PhD in pure maths needed?”

“A bit less Oxford, you mean.”

“If at all possible, inspector.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

She tells me then, in confidence, that DI Knox, Hathaway’s former inspector, is unlikely to be coming back to work. His drink driving arrest meant automatic suspension, but I know from Laura it was not an isolated incident. There was already a complaint of sexual harassment against him from a young member of the admin team plus multiple sickness absence issues. It seems he has been going downhill quite spectacularly since I’ve been away.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I say. “He used to be a good man.”

“I’m assigning you his caseload and office. You’ve already got his sergeant. Hathaway will brief you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

And that is the end of Detective Inspector Knox. This is not an uncommon fate for a seasoned copper and I take due warning.

I keep in touch with Hathaway throughout the day, which seems to surprise him, and we go together in the early evening to speak to Al and Johnny Costa at the import/export outfit they run as a legitimate business. Their less legitimate line is smuggling; from cigarettes and booze to drugs and people. They are not known for violence, seeing themselves as businessmen, but they are not above it.

At their warehouse, we tell them what happened to Dizz. I watch their reactions and review the performances with Hathaway afterwards. Their surprise and dismay seem genuine and in any event they both claim watertight alibis having been at a fiftieth birthday party with multiple witnesses until the early hours.

“What do you make of it?” I ask Hathaway when we are back in the car.

“I’m starting to think this was nothing to do with the Costas,” he says. “Morgan doesn’t seem to have been important enough or involved enough to be worth killing.”

“Agreed,” I say. “We won’t exclude the possibility of a random attack. There are dozens of bars and pubs in that area. He might have got on the wrong side of a stranger.”

“Or whoever he got that skunk from.”

When we get to my house I tell him to call it a night and take tomorrow off, “On Monday we’ll get a look at CCTV, see where the door-to-door gets us and take it from there.” 

*** 

I find Hathaway already at his desk when I get in on Monday morning. The paperwork relating to the Peverill, Griffon and Annie Denniston murders along with Ivor Denniston’s suicide is tied up as far as it can be, and ready for me to review. He has evidently worked through Sunday. I am yet to learn that a senior officer saying ‘take tomorrow off’ is regarded more as an interesting philosophical proposition than an instruction.

He stops work when I come in and goes off for a smoke and to get coffees. When he returns, we make a plan for the day. This is a ritual established during our first case which I found reassuring in those first raw days.

It is another bafflingly unproductive day. On the afternoon of his death, Morgan went for an uneventful drink with colleagues after work. He left for home before eleven but never made it. No one at the garage or in the pub can suggest anything exceptional about his day, there are no unaccounted calls to or from his phone, the door-to-door elicits nothing. DNA samples from the sweatshirt are rendered inconclusive by the food waste thrown on the body at the scene and the post-mortem report takes us no further forward. 

We glimpse our victim on CCTV talking to a man deliberately concealing himself in a grey hoodie. The man is good at losing himself in crowds, at finding blind spots. The two of them disappear into the alley, perhaps to buy and sell drugs, and do not come out. We never get a look at the man’s face and the blurred stills mean nothing to Morgan’s acquaintances.

We widen the investigation to the extended family, to the gentlemen Dizz was arrested with last year and to the other musicians in the jazz band. There is nothing there; nothing to suggest anyone had anything resembling a motive to murder the man. Furthermore, there is no evidence of mugging or an alcohol-fuelled Friday night fight. In short, bugger all. 

We sit down with Innocent on Friday afternoon and agree we can take the investigation no further until some new piece of evidence comes to light. It leaves a sour taste; there is a mystery here we should have solved for the sake of Morgan, who was not without hope, and his young family.

***

We have a relatively quiet couple of weeks after that, which gives me a chance to familiarise myself with DI Knox’s caseload. I am relieved to discover, that considering the sort of distractions the man had, it is in a decent state. I soon see this is due to the diligence of Sergeant Hathaway who has been acting as default case manager on all but the most high-profile murder investigations. He has done a good job but it hasn’t been fair on him; I can see where his inexperience has put him in difficulties. All the same, when I ask him about the state of the open cases and about those awaiting trial he impresses me again with his refusal to say a word against his old governor.

During this quiet interlude, I put my flat up for sale. With the property market the way it is, I get a good offer within a week and start looking for somewhere to buy. It should be straightforward. As long as the commute is reasonable I don’t care where it is and as long as there is a good sized second bedroom in case Mark comes back or Lyn visits, I’m not bothered about what it looks like. 

Val’s birthday falls on a Saturday this year. The sun comes out for her after a rainy week and I go to visit her grave first thing. I speak to Lyn and Mark and then go and collect Hathaway. I have decided to get through the day by viewing a list of properties and he has offered to keep me company. 

We are looking at a flat that meets all my specifications and I decide to make an offer. 

“This’ll do,” I say. Hathaway does not answer but I see he is looking less than impressed. “What?”

“Why don’t you hold out for somewhere you might like better?”

It’s the first time he has given an opinion on anything other than square footage and accessibility to the A40.

“I’m not too fussy.”

“I know, but you are allowed to enjoy your life.” He catches my expression. “Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but this place is depressing.”

I look at it through his eyes. The flat is in a modern block on an eighties estate out toward Headington. It is far from any patch of green, a decent pub or even a row of shops. It has three small square rooms with walls so thin I know which episode of Columbo next door have on. I am aware I’m drinking more than I should of an evening and I have fixed on the idea that it is because of where I am living. But actually, would this place be any better? Perhaps he is right, perhaps there is a voice inside telling me it would be betraying Val to take pleasure when she cannot. I know what her opinion of that would be. I can almost hear her gentle rebuke.

“Aye,” I say. “You’re not wrong. I’ll keep looking.”

In the car on the way to view the next place it occurs to me I don’t know much about Hathaway’s arrangements beyond that he lives in Jericho.

“Are you a property owner?” I ask.

“Not with Oxford prices, but I’m saving for a deposit.”

I imagined there was family money but it seems he is in the same boat as the rest of his generation.

“What have you got now, a flat share?”

“I’m not really the flat share type.”

“Never was a truer word spoken.”

I get a wounded look for that, “I’ve got a small studio,” he says and heading off my next question. “It’s a more dignified term for a bedsit. But I might have to rethink, I could save more if I moved further out to somewhere cheaper.”

When we have looked at and dismissed the last property, we take ourselves off to a pub with a beer garden for an early evening drink.

It is peaceful being here in the sunshine, looking out over the pretty river view. Peace is a less alien feeling these days and it occurs to me this might have something to do with the person sitting across from me, now smoking meditatively. Even with all his sharp edges and even with mine, Sergeant Hathaway and I are a good fit and I know I have hit lucky with my sergeant this time. 

“Is everything all right, sir?” He asks when the silence must have become noticeable.

“Sorry, Hathaway,” I say. “Everything’s fine. It’s my Val’s birthday, that’s all. It always gets me thinking. What’s that look for?” 

“It’s my birthday too,” he says. I can tell by his expression this is information he did not intend to impart and immediately regrets.

“You’re telling me it’s your birthday today?” I say putting aside the coincidence.

“Yes, but I don’t –“

“What are you doing with me, man, why aren’t you celebrating with your friends?”

He gives me one of his looks.

“All right, never mind, none of my business.” 

The man has surrounded himself with an electric fence. I usually do better at respecting the boundary lines.

“Well, happy birthday.” I hold up my glass until he concedes and toasts with me. “Next ones on me.”

“It was your round anyway, sir.”

“Oh, was it?”

It occurs to me that today is the first time I have seen Hathaway wearing anything other than a suit and he seems different in jeans and T-shirt; younger, less well-armoured. Not for the first time, I wonder what it is he is protecting so carefully.

“Do you usually mark today in any way?” He asks, relaxing when I do not pursue the top-secret matter of the day he was born.

“Aye sergeant, I normally get blind drunk.”

He looks appalled although it can hardly come as a surprise. 

“Is that the plan this evening?” He asks.

“I wouldn’t distinguish it with the word plan.”

“Would you like some company?”

I shouldn’t have said anything. It has taken me long enough to persuade my daughter I would rather be on my own on significant anniversaries, I don’t want to have to start again with my sergeant. 

“It’s good of you to offer but -”

“I’d bring takeaway and we wouldn’t have to talk. We can just read verses from the bible.”

“You what?”

He looks delighted with that reaction, the bugger.

“Chinese. You can chuck me out when you’ve had enough of me.”

If it hadn’t been his blinking birthday too…

“Oh, go on then,” I say and find myself anticipating the evening with pleasure.

***

I wake the next morning to the sun angling in through gaps in the blinds. Head aching, stomach protesting, everything else aching. Here we go again.

It is still early, so I lie awhile attempting to piece together the events of the previous evening. Hathaway turned up, as promised, with food. I had once mentioned in passing that I rated Martin Scorsese and he brought DVDs. We watched Mean Streets side by side on the sofa. I am not sure where that scenario features in the inspector’s manual for maintaining a professional working relationship with your sergeant, but there we were. 

That’s when it starts to get hazy. We should have stuck with beer but he likes a drink as much as I do and, with the heavy significance of the date hanging over both of us, I had to go and bring out the whisky. That potion worked its usual forgetting magic and I have little recollection of the hours after the film ended.

And through the haze, a particular memory shimmers. I have the sense I did not sleep alone.

There is no one beside me now. The bed is tidy, the pillow shows no indent, the duvet is straightened. But in my mind’s eye - Hathaway in the bed with me.

It is not necessarily significant, I try to persuade myself. This flat has no second bedroom, the couch is a two-seater and too small for Hathaway to sleep comfortably on, the kitchen table is no one’s first choice of pillow. So what if he got too drunk to go home and slept beside me? I’d rather he did that than wander the streets.

But the impression I have is that it was not as simple as that. Was there a kiss? Were there kisses? Was his body, warmly human, really lying against mine. Is that my arm around him? I imagine I can taste him, feel the press of his lips on my lips. The not-memory resonates with the impossibility and vivid clarity of a dream.

Cautiously, I investigate but I find no signs of anything more than a kiss having occurred. 

And I regret it.

‘Watch yourself,’ I tell myself.

I used to be the sort of lad who fell in love easily. I wasn’t particular about gender either. And not that bothered about class, age, race or any of the other things the world takes note of. I realised before I was out of my teens that this wasn’t the most sensible of survival strategies and when I settled down to a marriage and a career, no one could tell me apart from the rest.

I never regretted any of my choices, especially not my years with Val. After she went, it was such a blow I found it hard to have any other human anywhere near me let alone love or sex or anything of the sort

And now, as time passes and I recognise the signs of recovery in myself, those green shoots of hope, I absolutely cannot set my sights on James Hathaway. Him being male is less of an issue these days of course but he is half my age. We watched a film last night which I had first seen at the cinema as a newly minted police constable when he was not yet born. More importantly he is my subordinate and I am not former DI Knox. I have seen rank abused too many times to succumb to that kind of temptation. 

And what of Hathaway? No matter what kind of messages I think I might be getting from him, his sexuality is currently undeclared. I have no idea how he sees himself. I also have no idea what hold his religion still has on him. I had him down as a card-carrying member of the God Squad after he told me about his year in the seminary but he never discusses his beliefs or how much he follows the rules in his personal conduct. We can’t seem to talk about it without arguing. 

And yet, I am fond of him. In the way old fools have been known to ruin themselves with beautiful young things. He makes my life better and I am happier when I am with him.

I bring myself into line. I apologise to Val and I mentally apologise to Hathaway for whatever difficult position I have put him in. It is probably just as well I can’t flaming remember as I can at least look him in the eye when I get into the office on Monday.

I am not surprised nothing is said. Hathaway is at his desk as usual. He behaves as though nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, saying he wanted to go for a run on Sunday morning and hadn’t wanted to disturb me. I am not fooled though, there is something different when he looks at me. There is a question in those pale eyes. One I have no answer to.


	2. Chapter 2

By winter I am back into the swing of things at work. I was right to follow my instinct and come back to my DI job. If I ever had any doubts, they are gone; this is where I belong. Even Jean Innocent is looking less sceptical when I open my mouth, so I must be doing something right.

When the anniversary of Val’s death comes around, I bring her flowers and have cheerful conversations with the kids before going into the office. The day casts its customary shadow over December, but I do not feel it overwhelming me as it has in previous years. 

Hathaway and I are busy all day, following up witnesses in preparation for an impending trial. We are back in the office late afternoon comparing notes when we are called to the scene of a hit and run in New Road. The victim is a young woman named Marta Silvestri who died before the ambulance could get to her. 

The crime scene takes some managing as it is on a busy road at the start of the evening rush hour. It is slowing down the traffic for miles but Dr Hobson works with her customary unhurried care in a SOCO tent which rattles furiously in the wind. She can, however, do no more than confirm the victim’s injuries are consistent with being hit by a car at great speed.

Silvestri was coming out of the Council offices where she worked when a silver Volkswagen appeared from nowhere as she was crossing the road. Several witnesses confirm this. They are all adamant it could not have been an accident because the driver swerved across a lane of traffic to target her. Some say she was ‘mown down’ and others say ‘ploughed into’. The cause of death on today of all days starts to get to me and I can feel my temper fraying.

“I can finish here, sir,” Hathaway says when I have snapped at uniformed officers and members of the public. He speaks quietly and respectfully, but firmly enough. 

I take the hint and go home without a word. A couple of hours later there is a knock at my door.

“I can go away,” Hathaway says. 

He is proceeding cautiously but I am glad to see him. I had promised Val I would not drink today but after today’s crime scene, it had been getting harder to fight off the urge.

When he establishes I am not angry with him he briefs me on the case. Silvestri worked for Oxford County Council housing office. Some of her colleagues were at the scene and Hathaway learned she was a long-time member of staff. Her career had been unremarkable; not a star, not a slacker. She was a single mother with a year-old daughter and was just back from maternity leave. One of her colleagues took Hathaway to see her father so that the news could be broken to him. 

“That’s how I was sure, sir,” Hathaway says.

“What’s that?”

“I used to know Marta when we were children.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. Were you friends?”

“For a while, when we were both 9 or 10. She lived a few doors from my aunt and her family belonged to the same church.”

“Where was this?”

“Wolvercote. The church was Holy Cross. Me and Marta used to go for music lessons there together. Its where I learned to play guitar.”

“You play the guitar?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, his wary tone suggesting this is evidence that might now be used against him in a court of law. “That went on for maybe a year, maybe two. Then I was sent away to school when I was eleven and never saw her again.”

“You’re okay to carry on with the case?”

“Of course.”

It is a distant connection from twenty years ago and I see no reason for him to stand down.

“That’s fine, then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

“So what kind of family is it?”

“Her father is Italian, her mother English. They were both teachers when I knew them but her father has retired now and her mother’s dead. They were an ordinary family and her colleagues described Marta in the same way today.”

“What about her child’s father?”

“Off the scene. It’s all very amicable apparently. He’s currently working in Australia and the local police are going to speak to him. Her colleagues can’t think of any reason why anyone would want to kill her.”

“And yet someone deliberately ran her down.”

“Couldn’t it have been random?”

“Aye, I suppose.”

“Although - there is one more thing. The VW had its license plates concealed. The DCs are checking whether it was involved in any other crime today. But if not -”

“It’s more likely that Silvestri was specifically targeted.”

“Yes.”

“So, Hathaway, do you still play the guitar?”

“A bit,” he says.

“Like you used to row ‘a bit’? You’re not in Status Quo, are you?”

“No, I promise, strictly amateur.” His expression softens. “I wouldn’t be without it though.”

I send him away when it starts to get late. He gives me an assessing look and, getting up his nerve, asks if I am sure I don’t want him to stay.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine, I’m not going to drink. I was though, so thanks.”

Since the events of Val’s birthday, he no longer visits my home socially. We have an unspoken agreement; we do our drinking in pubs and stop after a pint or two. We have no more mystery nights, no more disasters in the making.

I get a rare smile and he heads off. I am smiling too as I have a bit to eat and wash up the few plates and glasses. It makes a difference having Hathaway around, I have to admit. I am never going to act on the spark that has unexpectedly ignited, but it is good to feel the extra warmth.

I stick to my good intentions and go to bed sober. Later I have cause to be thankful for my restraint, because my phone rings in the early hours of the morning. We are not on-call but that doesn’t mean much these days and I am expecting to find Hathaway on the line summoning me to another body. Instead it is the duty desk sergeant.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” she says. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“What’s happened?”

“There’s been a fire at Sergeant Hathaway’s house.”

I am instantly awake and out of bed, “Is he all right?”

“Yes, he’s fine and no one else was hurt, but his flat’s done for.”

“I’m on my way. Any news on what caused it?”

“Arson are at the scene.”

A haze of smoke hangs over Hathaway’s Jericho street and blue lights flash silently. I can see the blaze has been a fierce one but it is under control now and the fire brigade are working through, damping down the last traces. Police and ambulance vehicles are parked haphazardly on the road, and neighbours too are out on the street, some evacuated, some woken by the commotion. At first, I can’t find him.

I experience a moment of fear. That the wrong message got through and he isn’t safe and he didn’t survive. It is the wrong day for rational thought. But then I spot him. He is sitting alone on the pavement. He has a blanket around his shoulders, an arm around a damaged guitar.

I have only ever seen Hathaway’s place from the outside but I know his studio flat is the ground floor front room. Judging by the damage, this is where the fire started.

Mohan, a detective sergeant from Arson comes over to speak to me, “Someone chucked a homemade petrol bomb through the window into Hathaway’s bedsit,” he tells me.

“Dear God.”

“There’s two more flats; one upstairs and one down. They had minor damage. His room’s gutted though. Luckily, he was awake when it happened and he could get out and wake the neighbours. Upstairs have two small children and he and the lady downstairs got them out. And you might want to tell him it wasn’t the best idea to go back in and rescue his guitar.”

“Bloody hell.”

He glances down as a message appears on his phone, “The boss is on her way, sir.”

“Perfect. Can Hathaway go?”

“We’ll need a statement from him, but it doesn’t have to be now if you want to take him.”

“Thanks Mo, I’ll do that.”

Hathaway does not notice me until I sit beside him on the pavement. I rest my hand on his back and he turns around.

“How did you -?” His voice, which has almost vanished, seems to surprise him and he starts coughing.

“I got a call,” I tell him when he settles.

“Before you ask,” he whispers. “I’ve got no idea who did this.”

“You’re safe, that’s the important thing. And you saved some lives.” He goes back to staring ahead and I follow his gaze. A fire fighter is in his room beside the smashed window, raking through debris. “Let’s make a move, James. It’s too cold to sit around out here.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Also, CS Innocent is on her way. So unless you’re desperate for a close encounter with our leader, we should get going.”

“I haven’t got anywhere to go,” he says flatly.

“Then you can come back with me.” I interrupt before he makes the objections he is mustering. “I can drive you anywhere you want to go but I’m not leaving you here, so we might as well not waste time arguing.”

I can see him reviewing his options. Beneath the blanket, he is a featherless bird; barefoot, in underwear and a t-shirt. He is shivering with shock and the chill of this breezy winter night. His home is a crime scene and he has no phone, no cash or cards, no car keys. He has a guitar. I think it must dawn on him how little choice he has because he nods his reluctant agreement. 

He is silent on the drive to my house apart from bouts of coughing and then we sit together at the kitchen table with a drink. I have turned the heating up and given him some warm pyjamas and my dressing gown to wear but it is a long time before he stops shaking.

I suppose I shouldn’t, but I’m a policeman and I tend to fill silences with questions.

“Did you see anyone? Or hear anything?”

He shakes his head, “I was dozing when the window smashed and the curtains went up in flames. It spread so quickly I didn’t even bother to try and put the fire out, I just went for the neighbours. By the time I got outside there was no one there.”

“Hathaway, could this be anything to do with Marta Silvestri’s murder?”

I see him making the connections I have made, “I don’t see how.”

“Is there anything you haven’t told me?”

“No,” 

“You’re sure?”

“I swear, sir.” He puts his hands over his face in a familiar gesture of exhaustion. “I swear.”

“All right, I’m sorry, we don’t have to talk about it. Look, why don’t you go and lie down for a while.” He is too tired to argue and he lets me take him to the bedroom and get him lying down. I pull the duvet over him. “Get some rest, we’ll start to sort this out in the morning.”

He turns on to his back, “Are you coming to bed, sir?”

It takes me a moment to be able to reply.

“No bonny lad, I won’t sleep now. You get a couple of hours and you’ll start to feel better.”

I see it is after five o’clock and I go and make myself a cup of tea. CS Innocent has sent me a message so I phone her back. I reassure her that Hathaway is unharmed and safe with me. She says the fire is being treated as attempted murder, with the assumption he was the target.

She asks me if I have any idea what it’s all about and I tell her about the distant connection with Marta Silvestri. She says she will be asking another sergeant to thoroughly review all of Hathaway’s past cases to ensure the answer cannot be found in one of those. This is as it should be, but I’ve got a feeling about this one.

I take a shower and shave while I wait for Hathaway to wake up. A couple of hours later he wanders in from the bedroom. He is wearing the jumper and jeans I left out for him, which he looks predictably ridiculous in. Otherwise I see, the rest has done him good, and he is more focused.

“Morning, sir.” 

“How are you, Hathaway?”

“Medium to well-done. But better.”

“Are you up for going in to work today?” I ask once the coffee and toast are on. “I’m not sure staying here by yourself is the best idea until we know what’s going on.”

“Of course, I’m fine.”

I needn’t have asked. It would take a lot more than attempted murder to make him take one flaming day off work.

“I’m sorry, sir. No offence but I’ve got to get some clothes first.”

“I know, I know. Tesco will be open in an hour.”

He glares at me. There are some things you do not joke about.

“I’ve got two suits waiting to be collected at a dry cleaner. And then -”

I take out my wallet and hand him my credit card. “Get whatever you need. Pay me back whenever.”

He looks like he might crack but instead he dips his head, “Thank you, sir.”

We manage to persuade the dry cleaners to part with the two suits without the ticket. This is just a foretaste of the bureaucratic battles ahead.

As soon as the shops open, he buys shirts and shoes and other essentials. Then we go to the bank to find out how he can access cash and new cards without a scrap of identification or a current address. Not easily, seems to be the answer.

We wander in and out of shops and banks all morning and finally into a café for lunch and in all that time he never asks to use my phone. I wish there was a girlfriend or boyfriend, a mum or a dad, a mate or two he couldn’t go without letting know what has happened but it seems there is no one.

By the time he is dressed to his satisfaction, had a decent cup of coffee, something in his stomach and several cigarettes he starts to look more alert. 

He wants to go back to the flat to see the damage for himself and if anything can be salvaged. I know the answer, but we go anyway.

It is a tiny room, not much bigger than my living room with a small kitchen area occupying one corner and a shower room attached. The fire spread from the window all the way across the room to the bed. Between the fire, smoke and water damage all there is left is a soggy mess. His phone has melted and the jacket which held his cards and warrant card has been destroyed. Even the chair it was draped over has gone. I think he had particularly hoped the kitchen drawer with his passport and documents would somehow have survived but everything is lost. 

“It’s not so bad,” he says as he picks through the wreckage. “I’ve got most of my books and music in storage because there was no room here and my father has a few boxes of mine. It’s mostly my clothes I’ve lost. And every last thing that proves I exist.”

“Don’t worry, Hathaway,” I say putting my hand on his shoulder to steer him out of the room. “Anyone who says you don’t exist will have me to answer to.”

He pauses to look at me, to see how serious a commitment this is and then we go back to the car.


	3. Chapter 3

We are back in the office in the early afternoon. Innocent comes in to speak to Hathaway and let him know how the arson investigation is, or rather isn’t, progressing. She also offers him use of a constabulary owned flat a short drive away in the centre of town. He can stay there, she says, until the New Year when it is next needed by a visiting senior officer. I am already identifying an anxiety in the pit of my stomach as fear of leaving him alone but he cannot realistically stay with me.

“Right, Hathaway,” I say when she has gone and I have shut the office door. “Tell me everything you can remember about the time you were friends with Marta. Don’t leave anything out.”

He looks startled as though I have somehow ambushed him but then he just shrugs.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he says. “I used to stay at my Aunt Jane’s house during term time when I was at primary school. My family lived out in the country but her house was near my school, so it made sense. Marta was a neighbour. Her family went to the same church as my aunt and she was the same age as me so we got to be friends.” 

At the time, Holy Cross had connections with the Jesuits. One of the brothers, Brother Michael, was a brilliant musician. He could pick up any instrument and just play it. He was a great teacher as well and some of the children in the congregation would go to him for music lessons once a week after school.”

“Do you remember Brother Michael’s surname?”

“No idea.”

“All right, go on.”

“Marta had a violin and Brother Michael had been giving her lessons for a while. I had only ever played a bit of piano but I went along with her. Brother Michael taught me to play his own guitar and found me the one I’ve got now when he saw I was keen. Me, Marta and three others used to go after school to practise together as often as we could. As I said, it went on until I was sent away to school.”

“These other children, are you in touch with any of them?”

“No.”

“And Brother Michael?” He is still shaking his head. 

“Can you remember the other children’s names?”

He closes his eyes. “I don’t remember any surnames but there was Marie who played the flute. Her family were French and she left before I did to go back to France. Marseilles. I remember she was from Marseilles. Tommy was local; he had his dad’s saxophone. Andrew played the piano. He was Brother Michael’s relative, a nephew or cousin. They lived close to the church too. That’s it.”

“Look Hathaway, I’m going to have to ask this. But you get a charismatic man who surrounds himself with children -”

“Nothing like that. Nothing. I swear. Brother Michael was one of the few genuinely good people I’ve ever met.”

He gave Hathaway a love of the guitar and I can see the instrument only has good associations for him. I believe him.

“I’m glad to hear it. Did you ever see Brother Michael again after you left for school?”

“No. My aunt moved out of the area, so there was no reason to go back to Holy Cross.”

“And the other children?”

“I’m not aware of having seen any of them. I never had cause to think about that time until yesterday.”

“Shall we pay a visit to Holy Cross? See if we can’t track down some of these names from your past.”

“You seem very sure the fire in my flat is connected to Marta’s death.”

I reach for my jacket, “If anything else occurs to you, I would be glad to hear about it.”

The church, a traditional Victorian affair, is locked up when we arrive but we knock at the door of the rectory across the road. The priest who answers invites us in to the small parish office. None of the current clergy were there when Hathaway was a child but the Jesuit connection continues and the young man knows Brother Michael as a regular visitor. 

“I’m sorry to tell you, he’s not well,” he says. “He was diagnosed with cancer over a year ago and unfortunately it is no longer treatable. I believe he is not expected to survive for very much longer.” 

He makes a phone call and comes up with the address of the Birmingham hospice Brother Michael had recently been moved to.

I ask if any records survive of Hathaway’s music lessons. He doubts it. “We have to keep records of everything now, criminal record checks, parental consent, you name it, for safeguarding, but in those days –. Anyway, we have a clear-out every few years and this was a long time ago.”

It will take a couple of hours to get to Birmingham so we leave immediately. I drive while Hathaway, beside me, is silent.

“Hanging in there?” I ask.

“Yes, sir.”

“Want to stop somewhere, get a cuppa?”

“I’m all right. Just trying to remember.”

We have cleared Oxford and are on the motorway when he finally speaks.

“It was a happy time,” he says. “Home wasn’t always the most straightforward of places and I didn’t much like school but there at the church, it was the first time I felt part of something.”

I sense a hundred stories beneath that brief declaration, a solution to some of the mysteries of my sombre and solitary sergeant. Those stories, I have to admit, aren’t my business.

“I can’t understand,” he says. “How anything this bad could come out of it.”

“A lot of things happen that children are oblivious to,” I say. “Something huge might have been going on that none of you were aware of.”

“In my experience, children are rarely oblivious. They hear things and see things adults think they’ll miss.” Hathaway is looking at me, challenging me to disagree. I don’t even know what we’re talking about now. He sinks back into his seat. “But you’re right, not this time.”

We pass another half an hour in silence before he has a revelation.

“I remember Marie’s surname,” he tells me. His hand goes to his pocket for his phone a second before he remembers he doesn’t have one anymore. I pass him mine and he calls one of the DCs. He asks her to try and find Marie Clement, born around the same time as him in the mid-seventies, originally from Marseilles and now possibly in either France or the UK.

My phone rings again as he hangs up and he answers it.

“Inspector Lewis’ phone.”

It is the solicitor doing my conveyancing. They have a quick conversation and then Hathaway tells me I have exchanged contracts and I will be moving house as soon as the Christmas and New Year break is out of the way.

“Congratulations, sir.” He says. 

He has helped me choose a light filled ground floor flat in an   
Edwardian house in walking distance of central Oxford. It has two bedrooms, a small study and a garden. All polished wood floorboards and what have you. I am anticipating living there with pleasure.

“You can help me move in return for board and lodging,” I tell him and he smiles for the first time today.

“Thank you, sir, I’d be glad to help but I’m sure I’ll have something sorted in the next fortnight.”

We soon find the hospice and my badge gets us in to see Brother Michael. The nurse in charge warns us he will not be able to concentrate for long and is drifting in and out of consciousness.

The man in the bed is younger than I expected, only in his late fifties, but his illness has aged him and I can see he will soon be gone. At first I think he is asleep, but he opens his eyes to see who has come into his room. He fixes his gaze on Hathaway.

“Is that James Hathaway?” He asks in wonder, instantly recognising him. He speaks with difficulty but determinedly.

“Hello, Brother.” Hathaway says. He draws a chair close to the bed and sits. “They told us at the church you were here. I was sorry to hear you were ill.”

“I’ll soon be standing before God, James. This isn’t an occasion for sorrow.” He addresses me then. “Hello, sir? Are you James’ friend?” 

“I try to be.”

“This is Inspector Lewis, Brother,” Hathaway says. “We work together.”

“Inspector Lewis,” the man muses and I see we are starting to lose him. 

“We’ve come to ask about some of James’ old friends,” I say.

“The other children?” He brightens and focuses on Hathaway. “I used to call you the disciples. Do you remember?”

“Because we all had names from the bible.”

“Andrew was just here,” he says uncertainly. “Have you seen him?” 

“I haven’t but I’m trying to find him. Has he got the same surname as you?”

“Yes, of course, he’s my cousin’s boy, did you not know that?”

“How will we find him, Brother. Do you know where he lives?”

“He was just here, or perhaps yesterday. Are you getting the group back together? Fine idea. Do you keep up the guitar, James?”

“I do.”

He looks at me, “Have you heard him play?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure.”

“Never likes to show off. But you must. I hope you children will do more with your music when I’m gone. I never had a more talented group.” 

“Do you still see any of the others?” I ask. “What about Tommy?”

But his eyes close and we get no more from him.

I check the notes at the end of the bed to find the surname I need and take my phone back from Hathaway. Outside the room, I call the office and ask for another urgent trace, this time on Andrew Casey or his parents, starting in Wolvercote.

“Sir,” the constable says. “We spoke to the police in Marseilles and a Marie Clement came up. It’s a common name but the age is about right. She’s deceased.”

“When and how?”

“In January. She was stabbed while alone in her garden. The police haven’t been able to make an arrest.”

“Any suspects?”

“No, sir and no forensic or witness evidence either. She left a husband and two sons.”

“See if you can get the file sent over. And constable, top priority to find Casey. Top priority.”

When Hathaway comes out of Brother Michael’s room he mutters something about a cigarette and heads for the exit. I give him five minutes and then follow him out. I find him waiting by the car and tell him about Marie.

“You were right,” he says. “This can’t be a coincidence. We’ve got to find Andrew and Tommy. Assuming they’re still alive.”

“Andrew seems to be and we’ll have him soon. Come on, let’s go, we’ll focus on Tommy. Anything you can think of, Hathaway. Anything.”

On our way back to Oxford, we get a call to let us know an address has come up for Casey’s family home. Two constables are dispatched to find him.

“I remember something,” Hathaway says after more meditating. “About Tommy. His dad was dead when I knew him, but he had been a professional musician; a saxophone player. I don’t think he ever made any money out of it because Tommy never had anything.” Hathaway frowns trying to excavate a memory and a bell is starting to ring for me too. “But he’d had a big moment. He’d played on a famous album in the seventies. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, one of those.”

“Midnight Addiction?” I suggest.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“You’re talking about Alfie Morgan.”

“Fuck,” he says, getting there a moment after me. “Fuck.”

“Alfie Morgan was Thomas Morgan’s father.”

Dizz.

Our unsolved murder, our second case. I visited Morgan’s flat to speak to his widow several times during our investigation. There was a picture of Alfie on stage with his saxophone framed on the wall and it wasn’t long before I heard how he had played on Midnight Addiction’s fourth album, Eclipse. Alfie’s son was still playing music until his own death but had switched from saxophone to trumpet.

Whatever this is, it started almost a year ago in France and continued in Oxford, under our noses, in the summer.

***

The constables find Andrew Casey at his parents’ house and he is waiting for us in an interview room at the station. He is blond, like Hathaway, and almost as tall but with a relaxed amiable look about him, which is alien to my sergeant. Casey takes a few seconds to put Hathaway’s vaguely familiar face into context and then he lights up.

“Jimmy!”

“How are you, Andrew?” 

In Hathaway’s smile I glimpse the pleased, bashful ten-year-old he used to be; happy to have found somewhere he belonged.

“I thought I was all right,” Casey says. “The other police said I might be in danger. What’s going on?”

I ask him to confirm he is the Andrew Casey who used to take music lessons at Holy Cross.

“Yes, that’s right, same as Jimmy.”

I ask him whether he has had any contact with Marie Clement, Thomas Morgan or Marta Silvestri.

“I see Marta around sometimes. She lives near my mum and dad. I haven’t seen the others since Holy Cross days. Has something happened?”

“When did you last see Marta?”

“I can’t remember, but it’s been months.”

“When you last spoke to her, did she mention any threats or anything worrying her?”

“No. But we only talk about music when we meet. She played in a string quartet at the university until she had her baby. She was trying to find a way to get back into it.”

I tell him then about the three murders and the attempt made on Hathaway’s life.

Casey stares at Hathaway, “Jesus Christ. You think its connected to when we were kids, how can it be?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” he replies. “Has anyone talked about our music lessons with you or asked any questions about them?”

“Uncle Mike mentioned them last time I saw him. He always thought we should have carried on playing together. But he’s – you know he’s dying, right?”

“Has anything happened to you, Andrew?” I ask. “Anything that made you fear for your life or safety?”

He is shaking his head and then something occurs to him. He takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeve, “Well, I got stabbed.”

He reveals an arm scarred with a wound an inch or so in length. It is healed but relatively recent.

“What happened?”

“This was back in the summer in London. I used to work there until I got made redundant. I got attacked by some big bastard.”

“Where was this?”

He names a park in South London where he had been out jogging early one morning.

“Did you get the feeling it was a deliberate attempt on your life?”

“I thought he was just after my phone, to be honest.”

“Did he get it?”

“No, when he cut my arm he panicked and ran off.”

“Did you recognise your attacker?”

“Nope, but he was young, I thought he was a teenager. Pale, well-built. He said a couple of words and he had an accent; could have been Polish or something. But I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

He shakes his head.

“What about the police, did you report it?”

“I spoke to them in A&E and gave a statement but I never heard anything.”

I address the pair of them, “And neither of you have any idea what this is about? You’re being picked off one by one for no reason?”

I get no answer.

“I can’t believe Marta’s gone,” Casey says. “Tommy and Marie too. Christ.”

He looks from me to Hathaway, presumably waiting for us to come up with something. I’ve got nothing and Hathaway, who is looking so exhausted he might collapse, has nothing to say either.

“We’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of it, Andrew,” I say. “We’ll catch him, I guarantee it. And in the meantime, we’ll see about getting you some police protection.”

“Really?” He says looking even more alarmed. “All right. Christ.”

This turns out to be a rash promise. Jean Innocent asks me lots of unanswerable questions about where the budget for round-the-clock protection is supposed to come from, and for how long she will be expected to divert resources. Eventually she agrees only to having a patrol car drive past Casey’s house every hour. When I put this to him, he looks less than reassured.

“I’ve got a friend in London,” Andrew says. “What if I stay with her?”

“You’ve already been attacked once in London and Marie was in France and he got to her.”

“But if I’m being watched they’ll know I’ve been living back home. Maybe one of you lot could drive me and make sure no one’s following or whatever. I don’t want my mum and dad put in danger by going back to the house.” 

“All right,” I say, unable to think of a better solution. “But can you make sure you stay there?”

“I will,” he says earnestly. “I’ll be careful.”

He makes a call and, while we get his lift organised, he looks through pages of mugshots. He finds no one resembling his youthful attacker. 

He asks if he can go home and pack a bag but we advise him not to, in case his parents’ house is being watched. The constable is told to take precautions against being followed and we watch them drive off.

“Any idea who this possibly Polish teenager might be?” I ask as we go back to the office. “Any suspicious looking babies around when you were learning to play the guitar?”

“The Jesuits are all over the world but I don’t remember any Eastern European connection at Holy Cross.” He stares at the pile of papers and files on his desk as if uncertain about how it all got there. “What now, sir?” 

I look at my watch and see it is after seven o’clock, “Get your things, I’ll drive you to the flat.”

He collects a new phone from IT before we go and then we drive to the nearby mansion block. We pick up supper from a supermarket before going up to the flat.

It is a large and recently refurbished one-bedroom apartment, suitable for senior ranks used to the better things in life.

“All mod cons, Hathaway,” I say.

“I should have burned my house down ages ago,” he says lingering in the doorway.

I take the bags to the kitchen and begin preparing the food. It is only tubs of posh soup with bread and cheese so we are soon sitting down to eat. He barely touches his meal and eventually just gives up in favour of shredding pieces of bread.

“Innocent agreed to a patrol car on hourly checks,” I tell him.

“No special treatment,” he says.

No bloody use at all. If I thought for a minute he would let me I would stay here myself.

“It’s something, I suppose,” I say. “I’m worried he’ll try again soon. The first murders were months apart and now you and Silvestri are attacked within hours of each other.”

“He’s escalating, you mean. I thought that.”

“But if you stay inside, he’ll have a job tracking you down.”

He nods vaguely and doesn’t reply.

“All right, Hathaway?”

“Do you ever doubt your memories, sir?” He asks, throwing down his bread. “I mean from childhood.”

“I can’t say I do, Hathaway.”

He looks up, “Never?”

“I’ve forgotten a lot from when I was a lad, of course. And I might get the odd memory mixed up with a memory of a photograph but I don’t doubt the important stuff. Are you worried you’ve misremembered something, James?”

“Sometimes I don’t trust my memories from when I was a child. How do you know? I mean, how do you really know they’re accurate? Or if you haven’t blocked out whole stretches of time?”

I’ve heard about false memories and repressed memories of traumatic events. Is that the territory we are wandering into? 

“Do you feel like there’s anything significant you’ve forgotten about Holy Cross,” I ask. “About Brother Michael and the others?”

It is a long time before he answers, “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Then let’s leave it at that. If you haven’t got anything to remember, you haven’t got anything to remember. Now, try and eat something, you’ll feel better.”

He looks at me as if I am an alien species hailing from some marvellous planet where everything is happy and simple and takes up his spoon.

***

The night passes uneventfully and in the morning, Hathaway gets a lift in with the squad car assigned to his flat. We check in with colleagues in CID and Arson and find that the investigations into Marta Silvestri’s murder and the fire at Hathaway’s flat have yielded no useful witness, forensic or CCTV evidence. Our killer has once again proved adept at covering his tracks.

All we have is our man in a grey hoodie. He is seen on various cameras driving the silver VW. There is also one blurred image of him on foot a few streets away from Hathaway’s flat minutes after the fire. But there is still nothing to help us identify him.

Hathaway announces he is going to London to speak to Andrew. He doesn’t wait for permission.

“Take a bloody constable with you,” I shout after him as the door slams shut.

He times his exit badly as Jean Innocent is there to observe it. She decides he cannot have further involvement in the investigation. She also assigns extra officers to what has become a hunt for a serial killer and asks me what my next steps will be.

I think about those distant music lessons, imagining them taking place in an incense infused chapel, surrounded by stone saints and stained-glass windows. Of course, a chilly community room is probably nearer the mark. A clunky piano, plastic chairs arranged in a circle and five children, Brother Michael’s disciples, picking out in crotchets and quavers the opening bars of their fate.

With no new leads, I realise I must go back to that room. The answer lies somewhere in the histories of the five children and one adult. I ask the team to work on profiles of Marie Clement, Andrew Casey, Michael Casey, Thomas Morgan and Marta Silvestri. 

“As far back as you can go. We don’t know what we’re looking for, so anything could be important.”

“Not James Hathaway?” Innocent asks me.

“He’ll tell me anything relevant,” I say, although this is not precisely my reason.

“If he knows its relevant,” she says, echoing Hathaway’s own fears.

I contribute to the profiles by speaking to some of the people who were adults at the time of the music lessons. I start with Casey’s parents, a cheerful Irish couple full of stories about their son and cousin Michael. A few streets away, I find Marta’s grieving father, his granddaughter asleep in his arms. Late morning, I drive to Reading to see Dizz Morgan’s mother. 

Back at the station, I telephone Marie Clement’s parents in Marseilles. They are shocked to discover that the seeds of their daughter’s murder could have been sown during the brief time they spent working in Oxford many years ago.

They send me a link to a video of Marie playing a solo piece on her flute. Her mother is Ethiopian, and she was dark skinned with a halo of an afro. Mozart Andante, she announces and starts to play with subtlety and precision.

This is the sole benefit of my day’s work. Hathaway was right; there was nothing known to the adults that the children were oblivious to. Nothing and more nothing.

Hathaway returns from London in time to watch the video with me. His mood remains subdued and he seems to repent taking off in the way he did. I am past caring about anything other than seeing him on his feet and breathing. I suggest a pint and a bite to eat.

“It was a waste of time, anyway,” he says when we have finished our meal. “Andrew’s got no more clue about what’s going on than I have.”

“Has he seen much of Brother Michael over the years?”

“On and off, but he never gave any sign of anything being wrong.”

“I’ve got some more bad news for you,” I tell him.

“Is there any other kind?”

“Innocent wants you off the case.”

“I thought she might.”

“She’s got a point, I’d find it hard to make an argument that you aren’t personally involved. She also wants you to take a couple of weeks off. I’d rather you didn’t to be honest, I’d rather you were in the nick where I can -”

He quirks an eyebrow so I don’t finish the sentence.

“To be honest,” he says. “If I can’t work on this case I’d find it hard to concentrate on anything else. And I’ve got so much to sort out, I could do with the time.”

“Brother Michael’s an interesting man,” I say having picked up some of the family history from Mr and Mrs Casey. “Did you know he came from a wealthy manufacturing family?”

“I had no idea.”

“He was disinherited when he joined the Jesuits. They cut him off without a penny in favour of his younger brother. He kept giving all his money to the order.”

“He would have had to. Jesuits take a vow of poverty.”

“They said he never gave it a second thought. Didn’t care about money. Didn’t even own the clothes on his back.”

“I remember that.”

“I kept thinking they were about to tell me he also turned water into Chardonnay.”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if he performed a few miracles, either.” He takes a thoughtful sip of beer. “You’ve decided not to ask the constables to profile me or speak to my father?”

“Not for the moment, Hathaway. I would have spoken to your aunt had she been around but I don’t think it’s essential to bother your parents at this point.”

It is the same reluctance to trespass I experienced before. I wonder what I am afraid of stumbling across? He has an odd effect on me sometimes.

“Mum’s dead,” Hathaway says. “I’m not sure I ever mentioned it.”

He must know he never did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Four years ago. Very suddenly, it was her heart.”

“That’s hard.”

“God has a habit of taking the wrong ones,” he says surprisingly.

“Doesn’t he just.”

After a couple of pints, we walk back in the cool evening to Hathaway’s flat. Oxford is lit up for the season; sparkling stars and comets adorn the shopping streets. It reminds me the day itself is fast approaching.

We were both due to work through Christmas and New Year. He claimed no commitments and Lyn is off to the in-laws so I wouldn’t have been going to Manchester. It would have worked out well as I wanted to save my leave for the move, but even that is fast dropping off the radar. 

Near the flat, he puts out his smoke and diverts into an off-licence, coming out with a half-litre bottle of brandy.

“Come in for a drink?” He asks.

Of all the terrible ideas.

“Best not, Hathaway. I need to keep a clear head. I’ll take a coffee if you’ve got such a thing.”

Hathaway makes coffee for me and pours a proper drink for himself. Brandy works better than a sledgehammer on my skull but the attractions of oblivion have long worn off. 

And, after last time and what may or may not have transpired between us, I daren’t drink like that with him again.

I see his guitar, laid to rest on the dining room table and go and take a look. There is a crack across the body and a smashed-in side.

“Any chance of fixing it?” I ask when he follows me in.

“It’s done for. I bashed it against the wall when I was coming out of my room.”

“Going back for it was an impressively stupid thing to do, Hathaway. Mo particularly wanted me to tell you.”

He doesn’t bother to defend himself but plucks miserably at a string.

“You’ll get a new one,” I say. “And keep this one as a memory of Brother Michael.”

He rests his hand on the smooth wood, “I think he gave me his own guitar, you know. He told me he found it in a charity shop but thinking back, I never saw him play again. Imagine that, sir. When he loved music so much.”

I wonder briefly whether Brother Michael’s generosity to a curiously deprived child is somehow at the root of what is happening. Greed and exploitation of the goodhearted are routine motives for murder. But I cannot imagine how such a scenario would play out. Brother Michael has nothing to steal, not even a guitar.

***

The days leading up to Christmas pass quietly, perhaps a little too quietly. Other priorities take over and the extra officers assigned to the case are siphoned away. Against my advice, the squad car doing regular checks on Hathaway’s flat is cancelled.

Even Hathaway starts to go out during the day, doing all the things he needs to do to reconstruct his post-fire life. It is a risk, no matter how understandable.

Casey too decides it is safe to return to Oxford. He announces he is coming home for a job interview and staying for Christmas. He says he will let me know if he notices anything suspicious. Thanks very much.

To make things easier for the person who wants to murder them, Hathaway and Casey go together to visit Brother Michael. Having survived this, they do the rounds of various pubs in Oxford and then start running together every morning, taking the cities’ quiet routes and green spaces before the winter sun has even risen. Safety in numbers, I’m told. I am also told by my chief superintendent I am not allowed to sling the pair of them into the cells until I have a suspect in custody. This is the only reason I don’t.

Not that I am any nearer identifying a suspect. By Christmas Eve, I have to admit, the investigation has hit a dead end. Hathaway phones in the afternoon and I tell him my plan is to spend the next few hours reviewing all the evidence so far accumulated.

“Is Innocent about?” He asks. “I could come and help. Or bring the files round and we can work through them together.”

I suspect he is right and what this case needs is both our brains working together. But Jean Innocent was clear that for the sake of any future prosecution in which Hathaway would undoubtedly be called as a witness, he has to keep his distance from the investigation. 

“Best not, Hathaway.” 

“I know, but it was worth a try.”

“What’s the matter, haven’t you got anything to read?”

“Oh God, yes. All the Assistant Chief Constables have left books behind. Ask me anything about Jack Reacher.”

“Proper literature, at last.”

He laughs, “If you say so, sir. But the reason I’m phoning is to invite you to Christmas dinner tomorrow. That’s if you don’t already have plans. You’re off in the evening, aren’t you?”

“I am, and that would be grand. Are you cooking?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, James. I appreciate it. Is that you, in for the night now, peeling spuds?”

There is a pause, “Not exactly.”

“Hathaway, so help me.”

“Midnight mass at Holy Cross with Andrew’s family.”

“Of all the bloody places. Have you lost your mind, or have you actually got some kind of death wish?” I realise I’m shouting and I try to moderate my tone. “Does it not concern you that someone out there wants you dead?”

I can tell he is taken aback, “I’ll call Andrew now and tell him I can’t go.” 

“Sorry to -“

“No, I’m sorry, I know you worry about me.”

“I’d have to train up a whole new sergeant if you got yourself killed. I’ve not got time for that.”

“Understood.”

“And have a word with Andrew, will you?”

“Yes, sir. I will. See you tomorrow.”

When I hang up, I ask one of the constables to gather all the evidence files and leave them on my desk. I collect a coffee and a sandwich from the canteen. The walk helps me calm down enough to focus. I should not have got so angry with Hathaway; I’m not even sure why I did.

In the quiet of our office, I take the first folder from the pile and make a start. The team have been thorough and a lot of information has been collected and processed; profiles, police reports, post-mortem reports, forensic evidence, telephone records, bank statements. I read about ordinary children from different classes and backgrounds who grow up to take different and unconnected paths in life. I read about three murder inquiries including one file in translation. I have an arson report which is more like an account of a chemistry experiment on combustible curtains and a Metropolitan police robbery file.

When Andrew Casey spoke to the police in a South London A&E he gave them the same version of events he gave us. Their investigation was half-hearted to say the least. When no CCTV or witness evidence came to light and because nothing was actually stolen, the case was not pursued.

The whole incident bothers me. It has a different feel to it. It happened, I notice, just a few days after Dizz Morgan’s murder but this isn’t what is exceptional about it. After all, the attempt on Hathaway’s life took place immediately after Marta Silvestri’s murder. The difference is in the detail. There are no signs of the meticulous planning that characterised the other attacks, there is no unique method. Perhaps our man was watching Casey in preparation for targeting him and took a chance when he was alone and vulnerable in a quiet part of a park. The risk didn’t pay off but why didn’t he try again? It reminds me he is unpredictable and could strike at any time.

And we know nothing about him. After three murders and two attempted murders all we know is that he is a young foreign male with a grey hoodie. This makes as little sense as all the rest.

Finally, I open a file that arrived today. It contains all the Jesuits have on Brother Michael Casey. I have high hopes for this one, fat and comprehensive as it is. But there is nothing. No scandal, no complaints, no concerns. He gave up his life and fortune for the order thirty-five years ago and has served it faithfully ever since. He is cherished in parishes and communities on three continents.

CID is deserted by the time I close the last file. I have not found my suspect in these pages or even my next step. But I cannot afford to fail and I will start again with a clear head tomorrow.

***

I speak to the kids and bring Val flowers before going into the office on Christmas day. I am hoping for a quiet shift to work on the case but I am called out to not one but two, suspicious deaths. Neither turn out to be murder. The first is a clear suicide. It is Christmas after all. The second, an alcohol related misadventure on the Cherwell. But under-staffed and sergeant-less as I am, it takes the day to tie up both cases.

Dinner is not until eight so I still have time to go home, change and collect a couple of good bottles of wine. I leave my car behind so I can enjoy the wine and, when I arrive, I find things progressing well in the kitchen.

There is chicken because Hathaway has opinions about turkey. It is roasting with different fresh herbs and so forth. There is homemade stuffing, there are potatoes and parsnips in the oven and other vegetables ready to cook on the hob. Some impressively complicated gravy is taking shape.

When everything is ready, we take the food into the dining room. The table is set from the apartment’s formal dinner service, there is a white linen tablecloth and napkins, the lights are low and music plays on Hathaway’s new laptop. We speculate about the goings-on the room has seen; the intimate dinners hosted by top brass away from home and out of the public eye. Our dinner is not candlelit, even though there are silver candlesticks on the Welsh dresser. Our dinner is a friendly one, not a romantic one and yet I cannot think of another place I would rather be or anyone else I would rather be with. 

It quietens my mind being here with him but our conversation is not as easy as it usually is. There are silences, even awkward ones, weighted with the unsaid. I find myself talking about the Christmases of my childhood and the ones we had when the children were small. That he has no Christmas memories of his own, or at least ones he is willing to share, perhaps explains why our table lacks crackers and tinsel or any festive sparkle. 

We finish eating and move to the living room with what is left of our second bottle of wine. There is a gift bag on the coffee table and he hands it to me. 

“I got this for you,” he says. “It’s not a Christmas present.”

It is whiskey, a favourite brand of mine, and a good one, “You didn’t have to do this, not after cooking the best meal I’ve had in ages.”

“It’s a thank you. I don’t know how I would have got through the last week without you.”

“Get away, you’d have managed.”

“Oh and I bought it with your credit card.”

I look at the size of the bottle, “I’m very generous with myself.”

“But I’ve transferred the money online.”

“My bank’s been phoning all week. There’s been so many silk ties bought they think my credit card’s been stolen by Cary Grant.”

Even with all the dedicated wardrobe replacement going on I watch him pull on the tatty jumper I lent him on the day of the fire, too short and in all the muddy, old man colours he never wears. I have never been persuaded by the stony surface he shows the world; sometimes knowing him is too painful.

I have noticed two guitars, neither of them broken, leaning against the wall behind him.

“They’re both Andrew’s,” he says refilling our glasses with wine. “We’ve been practicing together.”

Something unpleasant inside me reacts to that news. 

“I thought he was the piano player,” I say.

“He’s a bit like Brother Michael that way. He can turn his hand to most instruments.”

“Good for him. So, Jimi Hendrix, now there are not one but two functioning guitars, do I get to hear you play?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.”

“Why not? If you’re terrible, let’s face it I probably won’t remember.”

He gives me a sharp look at that but reaches for one of the guitars, “All right, but I’ve also had a drink so don’t expect…,” he pulls a face, “Status Quo.”

He spends a minute tuning up and I see how at home he is with the instrument, as if, with a guitar in his hands, he is finally in possession of all his integral parts. He closes his eyes and starts to play. 

He chooses a well-known piece, probably with his audience in mind. It is Canon in D by Pachelbel. I have it on CD performed by an orchestra but there is something powerful about it pared down to its essentials on a single acoustic guitar; something raw and undisguised. And more than that, Hathaway’s playing, even with the occasional fumbled note, wraps itself around my heart, mingles with the caress of the wine, exposes the emotions I would do well to keep buried.

I understand why he never told me about his music, I understand why I have never heard him play. He gives so much of himself away it is almost a confession.

When the piece ends, he puts the guitar aside. He must see his music has brought me to tears. For everything I have lost and everything I cannot have. But he says nothing, just goes outside onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette in the chill night air.

I could follow him. I could follow him. 

I get my jacket and leave. I find my way to a taxi and home. I fall asleep with the Pachelbel still playing in my mind.


	4. Chapter 4

The thought of losing James causes more acute pain today and I telephone him as soon as I wake up. 

When he answers, I can hear he is outside and he tells me he is about to start a run with Casey. There is a defensive note to his voice because he knows my opinion on these early morning outings. He may even have deduced my antipathy to his developing friendship with the man. There is no point getting into it, so I thank him for the evening and remind him to keep in touch.

I ask myself why I am not pleased he finally has a friend he is prepared to tolerate; one who shares his interests and history, not to mention current traumas. It must be childish jealousy. Sometimes I despair of myself.

I am due in work today and I achieve this with liberal applications of black coffee. At my desk, I find myself reaching for the Met file of Casey’s London attack. This is the incident that has been bothering me, this is the anomaly, the one that does not fit the pattern of careful planning and pre-meditation. It could be unconnected; a straightforward attempted mugging, but I don’t believe it. I think it holds the answer to the case.

Frustratingly, my train of thought is interrupted by the phone and I am called to the John Radcliffe Hospital to deal with the bloody result of more festive cheer. Two teenage cousins, aged fifteen and sixteen, got into a fight early on Boxing Day morning in the bedroom they were sharing during a family visit. Both are injured but the sixteen-year-old is in surgery with a stab wound to the stomach while the other only needs stitches to a wound in his arm. 

The extended family are all at the hospital waiting for news and I dispatch a constable to take statements from them. I send another to search the North Oxford bedroom the fight took place in for any indication this was not a stupid spur of the moment lashing out.

I find the younger boy with his parents in A&E. He is dazed with shock and unwilling to believe he has seriously hurt the cousin he is clearly fond of. The dispute, it seems, was territorial. The boy with the more serious injuries had monopolised some prized piece of technology to do with video games which Hathaway will have to explain to me when I see him next. 

I ask him what happened to his arm. He tells me all the damage was done with a knife left in the room after a late-night snack. His cousin had pushed him away when he made his first mock thrust with the knife and the blade had gone into his own arm. This caused him to lash out and stab back with more serious intent.

News comes through that the older boy is not in danger; the blade did not go in deeply enough to cause any serious damage. I am not sure any arrests need be made; both sides of the family are against it and no lasting harm has been done. I decide to leave this one as a late Christmas present for the CPS to sort out and let everyone go home. I write up a brief report, make sure the constable in charge of paperwork knows which boxes need to be ticked and go back to my files.

I know exactly where I want to focus and I start by reading the victim profile my team came up with for Casey. It contains little of interest. He appears to have led an ordinary, uneventful life; going from school to college to work without coming to the attention of the police. He changes jobs every couple of years, but I know this is not unusual these days. He spends his money on nothing exceptional and keeps out of debt. When his redundancy money came through he bought an electric guitar.

I telephone Casey’s last employer on the off chance someone might be there on a bank holiday. It is a company dedicated to developing and supporting the databases of other companies and I find a solitary lass named Sita manning the technical support helpline. No one else is in the office and we exchange commiserations over being left to hold our respective forts singlehanded. I tell her who I am and ask her if she knew Andrew before he was made redundant.

“We’re a small company,” she says. “Everyone knows everyone.”

“Did you get on with him?”

There is a pause, “I – does it matter? We didn’t argue about anything.”

It doesn’t take long to find out what Sita is anxious about. Casey was top of the list when the redundancies came around because of poor attendance, poor customer relations and, most significantly, complaints of bullying and threatening more junior colleagues.

I think of the scar Casey showed us. It is at exactly the same place, above the elbow, as my young suspect’s self-inflicted wound this morning. The wound sustained when his cousin had deflected his knife.

I look again at the Met file and read the police account of his attack in the Lambeth park.

The A&E visit took place three days after Dizz Morgan was killed and I see what I missed before. He presented himself for treatment because he had a wound which would not heal. The wound might easily have been three days old. Furthermore, he never reported the incident; it was the A&E staff who asked the police to speak to him when he admitted it was a knife wound.

It is possible, in fact it is likely, he received his injury on the same day as Morgan was murdered. We know Dizz put up a fight.

I phone Hathaway on my way to the car. When he does not answer, I take my best chance and head for his flat. One of the neighbours buzzes me into the apartment building and upstairs I find the next-door neighbour waiting for the concierge to bring the flat key. He had heard the sounds of a fight and got anxious when Hathaway did not respond to his knocking and shouting. Between the two of us we break down the door.

A terrible sight awaits us. Hathaway and Casey are both lying unmoving on the floor, a knife between them and blood everywhere. Casey is face up and I immediately see he is dead. I go to my sergeant and hear his short, gasping breaths. I call an ambulance and send the neighbour downstairs to wait for it. 

He has a few minor cuts on his arm but is bleeding profusely from a single wound in his side. I get towels from the bathroom and hold them to the wound.

“James, wake up now, bonny lad. Come on, wake up now, wake up.”

Over and over until he, at last, opens his eyes. He tries to struggle up, but I keep him still.

***

Long hours pass before we know Hathaway’s injuries are not life threatening. He requires surgery and a hospital stay, but he will recover. When he is awake and lucid he tells me what happened.

“We finished our run near Andrew’s house,” he says. “And I went in for a cold drink. His mother had some washing in a basket and I noticed a grey hoodie in the pile. I tried to tell myself it didn’t mean anything. I mean, everyone’s got one or something similar, haven’t they?”

But it played on my mind and I started to think about a few things he’d said that didn’t ring true. I stupidly started asking him questions about what he said happened in London. I was back at the flat when he phoned and suggested meeting for a drink. I turned him down but he came round later and just went for me. I don’t remember much after that.”

“Did he say anything at all?”

“Something like, he had been planning to let me live so this was my fault.”

“He didn’t give you any explanation?”

Hathaway shakes his head, “None. I’ve still got no idea why he did all this and, sir, I don’t think he was the sort to do something without a reason. I don’t think he was killing for the sake of killing.” 

***

The grey hoodie Hathaway had spotted in the laundry basket turns out to belong to Casey’s mother and is entirely innocent.

However, under some loose floorboards in his bedroom, we find the one he wore while committing his crimes. The hoodie although washed multiple times is still stained with blood. Under the same floorboards we find the license plates of a stolen silver VW. The car itself is discovered burnt out in wasteland weeks later. We also find a secret laptop from which we retrieve evidence of the research he had done on each of the disciples. In the garage, we find traces of the ingredients needed to prepare a petrol bomb. We match Casey’s DNA to partials found at the Dizz Morgan crime scene and are able to establish he paid cash for train and ferry travel to Marseilles. We can link him to all the murders and the arson attack. What we do not find is anything resembling a motive. 

The mystery remains unsolved, but at least the families of Andrew’s victims have the consolation of knowing who if not why, and that he won’t hurt anyone again.

***

With the case closed and Hathaway in hospital I finally turn my attention to my house move. The first thing I do is order a new bed for the second bedroom. Hathaway has not allowed us to contact anyone on his behalf, not even his father, so I am hoping he will stay with me once he is discharged from hospital. When I suggest it, he puts up only token resistance.

He leaves hospital the day after the move and, while I unpack and wait for deliveries, he sleeps. He feels better after a couple of days and gets up, apparently with the sole aim of annoying me with offers of help. I watch him pottering about my new home and it is hard to escape the feeling that he belongs here.

But our relationship is perpetually out of reach. Unlikely, unprofessional, unwise, the victim of our own reticence and lost in the mists of memory. He may even have forgotten the conversation we had while he was still in hospital and I was spending Sunday afternoon visiting hours with him.

He was running a temperature and drifting in and out of sleep. I was reading the paper and must have dozed off too because I woke to find him taking hold of my wrist. I asked if he needed anything, but he had fallen asleep again.

Minutes later he relinquished my wrist to hold my hand. I recall the completeness of its capture by those long fingers, the bone beneath the skin, the fevered damp of his palm, the electrical charge his touch sent through me and still sends through me.

While he slept, our hands remained clasped together. When he was awake enough to notice, he frowned as if an unknown species had landed on his bed between us but did not take his hand away.

“Do you know how Brother Michael is?” He asked. 

Because this was always his first conscious concern, I had phoned the hospice before coming in.

“He’s gone,” I told him. “Just last night.”

“I thought so.”

“I’m sorry, Hathaway.”

“That’s God for you. Taking the wrong one.”

“Not always.”

“Maybe Brother Michael will get the group back together.”

He chuckled at this dark thought.

“The disciples? I imagine there’d be a few awkward moments during the piano solo.”

His gaze travelled across the ward, taking in the large and lively family around a nearby bed.

“When I was ten, I was in love with him,” he said. “Brother Michael.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Not just - I mean, I knew what it meant. Maybe I took the religious road to run away from it. Coward.”

“Or only human.”

“Coward,” he corrected. “But wine into blood, bread into the body, the sacred mysteries. More terrifying. Always flesh and blood. Flesh and blood.”

He lets go of my hand to stare at the palms of his.

“Easy now, James.”

“That night.” 

“Why don’t you try and rest.”

“My birthday, Val’s birthday. Do you remember anything about it?”

“I’m sorry to say, no.”

“I thought not.”

“Have I something to apologise for?”

“No, of course not. No.” 

He fell asleep again without ever enlightening me. 

Now he is recovering, I wonder if I should say something. The kiss was not my imagination and I have been cheated of a memory, denied our own sacred mystery.

“Everything all right?” 

He comes into the room, hair wet from the shower, catching me staring into space. The heating in the flat isn’t all it should be and he is wearing the black jumper I bought him as a late Christmas present.

“Can’t you sit down for five minutes, you’re supposed to be resting.”

He wanders off to put the kettle on. I can see he is moving more easily now. His pain is gone and his colour is back. He is healing with youth’s enviable speed and will soon be on his way. He has imparted information he would never have shared under normal circumstances and I daren’t risk everything by raising it.

***

A couple of weeks into the new year, Hathaway’s life starts to reassemble itself. Equipped with a driving license, birth certificate, passport and a couple of bank cards, he goes online to look for a flat. I tell him there is no rush; he can stay with me for as long as he likes but he gently declines.

He soon finds somewhere in Kidlington. It is cheaper than the Jericho place so he can save more for a mortgage. I get one of his looks when I ask if he had contents insurance to cover his recent losses.

He continues to recover well from his wounds and, with a new warrant card to go with the rest of his replacement documents, returns to work a week after I do. On day one, we are called out to a rainy crime scene and a double murder, and I make the mistake of thinking we can draw a line under our recent dramas.


	5. Chapter 5

We are in the office one Friday afternoon when an enquiry agent delivers a letter for Hathaway. I can tell by his dismayed expression it does not contain welcome news. 

“What is it?” I ask.

He does not answer but when he has finished reading, he drops the letter on my desk. Then, checking his pocket for cigarettes, he leaves the room without a word.

It is from a firm of solicitors in Birmingham. They had taken instruction from Brother Michael two years prior to his death and they tell a complicated story.

Michael swore a vow of poverty when he joined the Jesuits. As a result, he was disinherited and his brother was left his share of the family fortune. This much we knew.

His brother, having taken over the family business, was wealthy in his own right by the time their parents died. He was fond of Michael, as everyone was, and convinced that the Jesuits were just a phase. He put Michael’s share of the inheritance into a trust fund in his name. The trust stipulated that he could only access the money if he left the order. 

As Michael remained a Jesuit until his death, a second set of stipulations applied. He could specify in his will who received the money when he himself passed away. However, in order to respect their parents’ wishes, neither the Jesuits nor any other charity could benefit from more than a quarter of it.

Brother Michael decided to leave a second quarter to his cousin in Wolvercote, still a sizeable sum of money. He must have kept his intentions secret because, when I spoke to the cousin and his wife, they had no idea this money was coming to them.

The remaining half would be divided equally between whoever survived of Andrew Casey, Marie Clement, James Hathaway, Thomas Morgan and Marta Silvestri. They were his favourite class, his little disciples, and he hoped the money would help them pursue their musical talents. As all except Hathaway are now deceased the entire sum goes to him.

I find him at the back door of the building, sheltering from a downpour in the narrow doorway. He has a cigarette, but it is burning out unsmoked.

“Nothing came up when we checked Brother Michael’s finances,” I say. 

“No,” Hathaway says.

“But we were looking at bank accounts and expenditure. It might have saved you that knife wound if we had found out about the trust.”

“We weren’t meant to, were we.”

“Brother Michael must have told Casey about the bequest, he must have confided in him. Andrew realised you had all known each other so long ago, he would never be connected with your murders until he had inherited all the money. Then it would have been a case of making sure there was no proof left behind.”

He had a couple of pieces of bad luck. He had to target a policeman for one. If he hadn’t, the connections might never have been made. And he had to attack you and Marta within hours of each other because of the speed of Michael’s deterioration at the end.”

When I am convinced, finally, that I know what happened I stop my ruminations. It is satisfying to have a solution to the case but when I turn to Hathaway I see his stricken expression. 

“Shall we knock off?” I say. “Get a pint. You’re buying I think.”

I haven’t fully processed the number of digits in his inheritance but he is now an extremely wealthy man.

“Do you think I should keep the money?” Hathaway asks when I have steered him to the nearest pub and put a drink in front of him.

“What are you on about? Of course you should.”

“Marie, Tommy and Marta all had children and it should have been theirs.”

“And you shouldn’t feel guilty for surviving.” He stares into his pint. “Look Hathaway, it’s a lot to get used to but this kind of money buys you freedom. You’ll appreciate it as you get older.”

“I don’t think freedom would suit me, sir.”

“You’re like me, you need to work, but there are plenty of things you can do when you’ve actually got a choice.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“Rubbish, man. What about Brother Michael’s wishes? He wanted all of you to benefit. If you want to give something to those bairns, there’s more than enough to go around.”

“You really think I should take it?” 

He is so dejected, he might as well be seeking my advice on a painful dental procedure. This is James Hathaway; he does not see the world as others do.

“I really think you should.”

We talk the question through until I have persuaded him he would not be doing anything wrong by keeping his share of the money Brother Michael left. And had there been such as a thing as fate, doing its best to separate me from my sergeant. My James. It finally succeeds.

***

It takes him a few days to establish the letter is genuine, persuade himself it is really happening and work out what he is going to do about it. He has a day off on Wednesday and, first thing on Thursday, I get the news I am expecting. 

“I went to see a solicitor yesterday,” he says after collecting our coffees and closing the office door.

“Oh, yes?”

“She’s going to arrange for Marie, Tommy and Marta’s families to receive their shares of Brother Michael’s money.”

“That’s not a bad day’s work, Hathaway.” I think of Tommy’s children in their grim Council flat and Marta’s daughter with one elderly grandparent to care for her. “You’ve saved a few futures there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But you’re leaving a bit for yourself, I hope?”

He pauses, “Yes, I’m keeping a quarter.”

“I should think so.”

“And I’m resigning. I’m going to hand in my papers to CS Innocent today.”

“I thought you might.” It is a shock to hear the news, even though I have been preparing myself for it.

“Everything’s changed,” he says. “I can’t carry on as if it hasn’t.” 

“Well, cheer up, it’s not that bad. I’ve seen you happier in the back of an ambulance.”

I at least get a smile for that.

Since he came into my life, I am drinking less and brooding less. The pain of the grief I thought I would never recover from has eased. I owe that to Hathaway. I had hoped we would work together for longer than the few months we’ve had, but if I have learnt anything in my life, it is that there are few certainties.

“I’ll travel for a while,” he tells me.

“Good,” I say. “See the world, get things into perspective. What are you planning? A Caribbean cruise or something?”

He looks disgusted at the suggestion, “I’m going trekking in Patagonia.”

This makes me laugh, “Never change, Hathaway.”

***

He stays for as long as it takes to handover to my new temporary bag man; a young constable preparing for his sergeant’s exams. The team sign a card and club together to get him a good bottle of something but they don’t know his reason for leaving and assume from his countenance that yet another disaster has befallen him. He continues to behave as though he is being sent to the gallows and I am hardly more cheerful. He doesn’t even want to go for a pint on his last day, let alone have a proper send-off.

Freddie, my new trainee sergeant is keen, efficient and a lot more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first thing in the morning than I am accustomed to these days. I know he finds me too serious and austere a governor but we get on all right. He is not as sharp as Hathaway but his knowledge is good and I think he will do well when he comes to his exam. He is good at managing the team too, putting people at ease, keeping things cheerful. Is he deliberately not being Hathaway to provoke me?

James has to take three flights and a bus before he is anywhere near the start of the hike. The walk itself, through a mountainous region, takes nine or ten days and then he is planning more travel depending on how the mood takes him. I understand from this that he wants to be as far away from his money as possible for as long as he can manage and I have prepared myself not to hear from him until the summer.

So I am surprised when he appears on my doorstep the following morning just as I’m leaving the house for a suspicious death.

***

“I didn’t go,” he informs me.

He has the glazed look he gets when he has been drinking for a long time.

“I can see that. Come in.” 

Freddie is waiting for me in the car outside. I hold up my palm to indicate ‘five minutes’ and bring Hathaway in. He drops his rucksack, swaying slightly with the momentum.

“What happened?” I ask when he shows no inclination to speak.

“I had a drink before I checked in.”

“And then?”

“And then I didn’t check in.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs, “I had some other drinks.”

“James.”

“I think I’d rather be here.”

He thinks he’d rather be here. “Going on holiday was bound to be beyond you, wasn’t it?”

He takes a small bottle of brandy from his pocket, “Shall we have a drink?”

“It’s seven in the morning, canny lad. Why don’t you try breakfast before you move on to spirits?”

“Morning? Really? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

He absorbs this astonishing news, “A brand-new day, sir?”

“Aye and I’ve got a brand-new dead body waiting for me by the river.”

“You can’t. Don’t go.”

“I wish I could stay, James.”

“Stay and tell them to stuff it. I’ve got all this stupid money, neither of us have to work again.”

“Sounds like a great plan. Why don’t you get some sleep and we can work out the details later.”

He looks on the verge of tears, “Don’t send me away, please.” 

“Never, James. Never.” I try to steer him toward the spare room. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Maybe we can have a drink when you get back,” he says. “You never want me when you’re sober.”

It is not often I am really shocked.

“You were my sergeant,” I say. “I had no business wanting you at all.”

He looks up at this, straight into my eyes, “I’m not now.”

He is a petrol bomb hurled through the window of my heart. We are kissing as the world goes up in flames. We are kissing.

I let him go. 

“You’re drunk,” I whisper. “When we do this, I want to know you really want it. Both of us, with our eyes open, do you understand?”

He finds my lips for another kiss.

“Because I don’t just…,” he stammers. “I mean, I love you.”

I am lost again.

“Sir, I love you,” he murmurs softly.

“I love you too, James. Did you already know?”

“You told me once.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I remember.”

“Promise you’ll be here when I get back.”

***

It is a straightforward case and we make an arrest by the end of the day. More due to the killer’s incompetence than the brilliance of our investigative skills, but a good result nonetheless. Freddie does a good job and even charms a confession out of our suspect, but it is evening before we can clock off.

When I do get home, I find the flat in darkness. The door to the second bedroom stands open and, although the bed has been slept in, he is not there. He has left no note or message. I try to phone him but he does not answer. I leave a voicemail, ‘you promised to wait for me’ but it comes out angrier than I meant it to. He does not call me back. He is as out of reach as he would have been in Patagonia. 

***

In the morning I send another, calmer, message. I tell him to phone or come over if he wants to talk. But long days pass and I do not hear from him.

A week later, I am back from a morning in court when I get a summons to Jean Innocent’s office. 

She has Hathaway with her. Hathaway. 

He still looks as though he hasn’t slept but he is sober and, I notice, dressed for work. He stands when I come in but does not make eye contact. Innocent sees this and tells him he can go.

“I take it you’ve been kept in the dark about Hathaway’s plans,” she says waving me into a chair.

“You’re right about that, ma’am.”

“Then I hope this is going to be a surprise of the good sort. Hathaway wants his job back.”

“What?”

“Obviously, the life of a millionaire jetsetter can’t live up to the heady excitement of being your sergeant.”

“No,” I say attempting to take the news in. “Apparently not.”

“And did you know, he spent the week giving his money away?”

“Ah no. To who?”

“Various charities, the Jesuits are getting some, as is the Police Benevolent Fund.”

“I suppose I’m not surprised.”

“She gives me a penetrating look, “And you’ll take him back? Things are all right between you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Glad to.”

“Good, then that’s settled.

“Do you mind if I –“

“Yes go, take him for a pint.”

But when I get outside he has gone. Again.

I tell Freddie I’m off for the afternoon and I drive to the flat Hathaway rented in Kidlington and never got around to giving up. This one is on the top floor of a large, rambling old house. 

The room is no bigger than the one in Jericho and already seems cluttered. He has changed out of his suit into jeans and the jumper I gave him. For some reason this blunts my annoyance at his latest vanishing act. He clears the one armchair for me to sit. 

“I hear I’m getting my sergeant back,” I say.

“If that suits you.”

“You know it does.”

“I’m sorry to have been all over the place with my decision-making, lately.”

“After everything that happened, you were entitled. How are you feeling?”

“Foolish. The usual.”

“We’ll have to sort you out some monthly stats to collate. That’ll cheer you up.”

He considers this, “That’s probably true.”

He wanders into the kitchen area and opens a cupboard, “Do you want a drink? I’ve still got some of my leaving present left.”

“I’m fine. Come and sit down, Hathaway.” 

Remarkably, he does as I ask, sitting opposite me on the bed.

“I don’t have the money anymore,” he says. “Did CS Innocent tell you?”

“She told me. Did you keep any of it?”

“I couldn’t. It felt like blood money. You must think I’m insane.”

“No,” I concede. “I can understand. I mean, I would rather be coming to see you in something bigger, with a view of the Mediterranean, instead of this rabbit hutch but I do understand.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“It sounds like the money will be doing some good, as well. Brother Michael would have approved.”

“I thought about what you said, though. About Brother Michael’s wishes.” He reaches for a case behind him on the bed. “This is my Gibson.”

I can see this guitar is something special. It is made from pale spruce and maple with a dark wood fretboard. Its shape is elegant, like a violin, but it reminds me of the guitars around in the fifties and sixties, of the early days of rock n roll. It is just a few years older than me, from 1948, and he tells me about it as it rests under his arm. 

“Sorry,” he says when he realises he has started to lose himself in technical intricacies. But I had been enjoying hearing him speak so lovingly of the instrument.

“I understood about half of what you were saying,” I tell him. “Which is about average, to be honest.”

He smiles at this and we both fall silent. Outside, the rain has started again, tapping lightly against the window. I speak although I had not known I would be able to.

“Why didn’t you wait for me, James?” 

He picks out some notes on the guitar; the start of a blues song. The sound is warm and sweet.

“I told you I was a coward,” he finally says. “Or did I dream that conversation too?”

“I would have taken care of you,” I almost shout. “You would have been safe with me.”

He stares at me, his colour rising. 

“I know that,” he says. “I know that. Forgive me. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” 

I see it is more than an overused expression. He really does doubt his own wellness and wholeness. Does he doubt his ability to be anything other than alone? Or his courage to cross lines of sexuality while he still hears the whispers of the seminary priests. Or are the roots of his troubles in his ‘not straightforward’ childhood?

But he has already told me, hasn’t he? It is none of these and all of these.

“Flesh and blood, James. Flesh and blood.”

He slips to the floor, guitar and all, onto his knees.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to my hand.

“None of that, now. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Wait for me.” 

“What?” I ask, not sure I have heard correctly.

“Nothing, never mind. Nothing.”

He is still. It is a focussed, burning stillness unique to Hathaway. Oh, you’re worth a wait, I think to myself. You’re definitely worth it.

He sits back against the bed, out of reach, his hand going to his eyes. The room darkens as the rain grows in intensity and then we listen as it subsides. 

“Let’s hear from this Gibson then,” I say. “Or is it purely decorative?”

He wipes away stray tears with the heel of his hand and reaches for the guitar. I close my eyes to listen.

End

July 2018


End file.
